Suicidal
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: He wouldn't do something that stupid, would he?


_First appeared in _Road Trip With My Brother 8 _(2009), from Agent With Style_  
_For R_

**Suicidal**  
K Hanna Korossy

"So this is number…"

"Nine."

"Nine. Out of…"

"Thirty-six."

Dean groaned. "I hate this job."

"Look at the bright side," Sam cajoled from the passenger seat. Dean glanced up at him, warily curious. "It could be one of those big city high schools with classes in the hundreds."

Dean's brows drew together. "I take it back—I hate _you_."

Sam's mouth twitched. He climbed out of the car, peering back inside at Dean. "You comin'?"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean heaved a long-suffering sigh before going to join his brother. Truth was, Sam rarely smiled since his girl had died, and Dean was enjoying the victory, small as it was. Even at his own expense.

The house looked like all the others they'd been to that day: tiny, nondescript white with dark shutters, a cluttered yard, and a cable dish on the roof. Not only had the senior class of Galesburg High been relatively small, few of them had gone on to bigger and better things. And the ones that had were dropping off like flies.

Enter Winchesters.

But seriously, would it have been asking that much for one of the alumni to at least be hot?

Brian Luster sure wasn't in the running. When the door swung open to Sam's knock, the twentysomething schlub in a grimy wifebeater and overflowing jeans who answered had probably not been voted Most Likely to Succeed. It was an effort just to smile at the pale, paunchy face.

"Yeah?"

Dean let Sam slide into his act: newspaper reporters, tragic deaths, yadda, yadda. This was one of Dean's least favorite parts of the hunt, and while it had its purposes, he was more than willing to let Sammy run with the ball. Instead, his gaze roamed the outside of the building, peered past Brian into the dim house, then settled on the man's face, watching his expressions, his eyes.

Dean's own narrowed after a minute.

"Well, if you think of anything, please call us." Sam had finally given up on the monosyllabic responses and handed over a card. Luster cast a disinterested eye over it, then started to shut the door.

"'Scuse me," Dean interrupted, and smiled saccharinely. "Couldn't help notice you got some broken windows." He nodded to the right of the house.

Luster's face drew into a pucker, eyes filled with suspicion. "Yeah, so?'

Dean shrugged. "Nothing. Just, might want to get that fixed, never know what's out here."

"Whatever." Shaking his head, Luster retreated into the house and slammed the door in their faces.

"Charming guy," Sam said dryly.

"And lying through his teeth." Dean led the way down the weathered steps.

"You noticed that, too, huh?"

Dean snorted. "Kinda hard not to." Not that it meant anything, as they both knew. Few people spilled all they knew to a reporter, and secrets could be as mundane as the person hated the victim, or had secretly been their lover, or anything in between. At least two other people they'd talked to that morning had also been lying about something.

Sam glanced back at the house. "What was up with the windows?"

Dean tilted his head. "They were broken from the inside."

Sam slowed as they reached the car, resting his clasped hands on the roof. "So, you think…what, that something attacked him, too, and he fought it off?"

"I don't know, Sam—maybe he's just a mean drunk. And the guy's not exactly Martha Stewart. But…I'm pretty sure he knows more than he's saying."

Sam chewed his lip. "Maybe he got into something he can't quite control."

On his side of the car now, the sun-baked enamel warm under his hand, Dean leaned his hip against his baby and contemplated his brother. "Something that can get inside locked rooms and make people kill themselves?"

"Or kill them and make it look like they killed themselves," Sam amended.

"Or maybe we've just got a lot of unhappy people coming out of Galesburg High," Dean said pointedly. He opened his door. "After seein' this place, can't say I blame them."

He was pretty sure Sam sighed as he climbed in after. "Yeah, maybe."

Dean glanced him over, took in the bowed shoulders and the tired lines around his eyes. His kid brother had gotten better at hiding it, but Dean knew he still wasn't sleeping very well, and the weight of grief settled over him whenever he wasn't engrossed in a case. Dean made sure that he ate, spent at least a few hours in bed every night, and knew he wasn't alone. Sometimes it was all even he could do. "Hey." He nudged Sam's arm.

Sam looked up at him blankly.

"I think I saw a homemade ice cream place down the street."

And that smile was exactly why he was the friggin' awesome big brother.

00000

By day two, and interview twenty-three, Dean was pretty sure they weren't going to get anything through this route. Yeah, there were still over a dozen people to talk to, and any one of them might end up having a bookshelf full of occult books or weird symbols carved into their doorway or, hey, a t-shirt that said "Tri-State Association of Demon Summoners" would be nice. But even Sam didn't look too hopeful anymore, either, and that was never a good sign.

As soon as they reached the car after their latest dead end, Dean pulled his flask out and took a swallow of whiskey. He offered it to Sam, who frowned at him.

"Hey, gotta wash out the taste of that lemonade with something. Dude, that stuff was _nasty_."

"It wasn't that bad, it was…" Sam's face scrunched. "Okay, yeah, it was pretty bitter."

"And those things she called cookies? I think we could use them for weapons."

"That why you had four of them?"

"I was being polite," Dean muttered, starting the car. "You wanna hit the next one?" he asked halfheartedly.

"Oh, God, no."

His mouth curled. "Dinner?"

"I just wanna go back to the room, Dean. Maybe the coroner report's in on the last vic."

"Yeah, okay," Dean caved. It had always been hard to peel Sam away from his security blankets. "Beers tonight?" he added hopefully.

Sam shifted in the seat. "If we're not learning anything in interviews, we need to do research other ways, man."

"Beers after research?"

Sam sighed. "Six-pack in front of the TV?"

"Deal," Dean agreed, satisfied.

Sam not wanting to go out didn't preclude food, however, especially not for Dean's stomach. And if he wanted to keep Sam from turning into Scarecrow Boy, he had to go out and be the provider. Sam was taking research point on this case—who was Dean kidding; Sam _always _took research point—which left Dean on dinner duty. Hunter to Sam's gatherer? Heh, he could go for that.

Back at the motel, he'd ducked inside the bathroom to wash up and change his sweat-damp shirt, and came out to find Sam already comfortably settled in front of the laptop, hard at work. Dean paused a moment to watch him, amused: the geek in his natural habitat. Or Sam in his comfort zone, anyway, and there was a satisfaction in that. "What do you feel like eating?"

Sam shrugged one-shouldered, eyes glued to the monitor. "Doesn't matter."

Dean cocked an eyebrow as he slid his jacket on. "That mean you'll eat anything I bring you?"

Suspicious hazel pinned him over the top of the computer. "No brussel sprouts or—"

"—stuffing—dude, I know. I _want_ you to eat, remember?"

Sam's eyes dipped back, a little color in his cheeks.

Dean hesitated, opened his mouth to say something useless for the fortieth time.

"No chick-flick moments, man," Sam said without even looking up.

Dean sputtered over what was meant to be indignation but he was pretty sure was a laugh. Just hearing those words out of Sam's mouth… "Shut up," he groaned.

Sam's mouth was twitching as Dean left. In all, it was turning out to be a good day.

Dean had been the one to read about the rise in local suicides originally. Sam had dug up the high school link soon after. Two days later, Dean still wasn't sure they had an actual case there, lying friends or no, but the coincidence of a fifth of a small-town graduating class committing suicide with whatever they had on-hand: pills, a razor, a friggin' pen, all in a month's time, remained a little hard even for him to swallow. And the fact that at least three of the deaths had occurred when the victims had been completely alone did make a human killer unlikely. Sam was still sure it was their kind of thing, and Dean trusted his brother's instincts.

Sometimes he just wished he could get Sam's read on Sam himself. Because the nightmares, the grief that dulled the kid's—the _man's_—eyes…

Dean shook his head and went in to place their order.

At least this he could do. Food, sleep in the least-rundown motels they could afford, giving Sam his quality laptop time and making sure he had clothes and his books and the occasional beer: these Dean knew. Take care of the body, and the spirit, he hoped, would come with. It kept him from going crazy, too, being able to help at least this way.

And every once in a while it earned a smile, which he saved up like currency. He was anticipating one now, in fact, seeing as the diner had had one of Sam's favorites: pot roast. The bag smelled great, perfuming the car, then even the air as he reached the motel door. Sam was gonna be—

Lying on the floor. Eyes closed, bleeding in a puddle on the thin carpet, the lower right side of his shirt deep red. It matched the knife in his hand.

"Sam!" Somewhere in the two seconds it took to drop the food, shove the furniture to the side, and flop onto his knees beside his brother's body, Dean cycled through _God, no, _and_ please _and _he's alive_, although he didn't know for sure until he was close enough to see Sam's chest shudder through a rise and fall.

"Sam, what—?" _Danger_ strummed through him next,but even as he relieved Sam of the knife and his own hand closed around the gun in his waistband, Dean could feel the room was empty. A visual sweep wasn't turning up anything, either. He reluctantly let it go for the moment, turning back to Sam.

"Hold on, Sammy." _Should've been here_. _He should've been _safe _here._ _Need help_. He was insanely coordinated as he tossed the knife aside and yanked his bag close, pulling out the first garment he found to press against Sam's side even while reaching for his phone.

Sam made a soft choked sound, eyelids fluttering. His fingers curled around the missing knife.

They were in town investigating suicides. _Door was locked _and _grieving, depression, pain _and _he was holding the knife _filtered through Dean's mind. _Did he…?_

"No," Dean breathed, and dropped the phone to press determinedly with both hands, even as Sam bucked and keened his hurt.

His hands were cold and his face was hot, but he wasn't John Winchester's boy for nothing. Pushing aside everything else besides _he's alive _and _need help, _Dean leaned over his shallowly panting brother.

"Sam."

Sam's eyes fluttered, body folding a little around Dean's pressing hand. _M'brother. _He coughed, and Dean reached up to rub his cheek. _All that matters._

"Sammy?"

Sam focused on him with remarkable effort, and Dean saw the moment recognition blossomed. There was no guilt there, though, no shame or despair. Just pain, some lurking fear, and a hard determination that took Dean aback. It was in the grip that latched on to his shirt. _Never was a quitter_, his mind quietly reminded him.

It took two tries for the whisper to gain enough volume for him to hear it.

_"Tulku." _

His brain stopped dead for a moment.

Then, finally, with relief and guilt: _Oh, God, it wasn't him._

00000_  
_

Breathing hurt.

Dean dropped the clipboard of paperwork onto the seat beside him and his face into his hands, scrubbing through his hair with blunt nails. It was all replaying in his mind: seeing Sam lying bloody on the floor, gathering his gangly little brother up, whispering broken things between Sam's moans. It had been awkward, trying to lift the heavy body and keep the pressure against his side and hold him in a way that Dean could see he was still breathing, but there was no question of not doing it. Not with what he knew—_tulku?_—and what the cops would think, and the hold Sam still had on his shirt. Not with the way Sam forced his eyes to stay open and watched him, like he was afraid Dean might vanish. As if he'd ever been the one who'd done the leaving.

It had been such a long trip in, even with Sam staring at him upside-down from the seat the whole way. Especially with Sam staring at him.

They'd taken Sam at the ER entrance, relegated his family to a corner of the cubicle as they stripped and stabilized and finally sent him for a scan, followed by surgery. A nurse with a soft voice had coaxed Dean into the bathroom to wash the blood off, and another gave him papers to fill out. Cops came and went, reluctantly satisfied by that old standby story, the mugging gone wrong. Then he was taken to a tiny room to wait alone, privately. To think.

He focused on filling his lungs with air a few times and slowing his thoughts down to match his respirations.

In. _He'll be okay._

Out. _He was attacked._

In. _Sam wouldn't do that to himself._

Out. _Something got him in our _room.

That last took a few breaths to process. Sam should've been safe there. He wasn't even in the victim pool, for God's sake. Dean had just wanted to give him a little downtime, let him unwind with some research, feed him, tease him out of his shell a little with some beer and a bad movie. It was his job to protect the kid, but there shouldn't have been anything dangerous there. Sam should've been safe. Down, maybe struggling some, but safe.

_It was Sam's knife._

But no. No way. Sam was grieving, but he wasn't suicidal: he wasn't that selfish or stupid. Or, Dean hoped, broken. The MO of this one was straight out of their case, and in their job, the sound of hoofbeats usually meant zebras. No, Dean took a breath, Sam hadn't done this to himself. He'd been attacked and nearly killed in their room while Dean had been on a friggin' dinner run.

And Sam had said "tulku."

Dean wracked his brain. Tulkus, or tulpas, were thoughtforms, brought to life by practitioners of Indian mysticism. They could appear or disappear anywhere, and when they were present, they were solid. Pretty much the perfect locked-room killer, if someone wanted to create them for that purpose, one Agatha Christie had certainly never dreamed of.

There weren't any Indian names on Galesburg High's rolls; everyone they'd talked to so far was white-bread middle America. Then again, no one said the practitioner had to be of Indian descent. All it took was reading the right books and a lot of practice. Tulkus were hard to create and even harder to control, notorious for turning on their unwary makers.

Dean sat up. Like crashing around breaking windows. And had that maybe been a bruise on Brian Luster's unshaven chin? It was kind of a stretch but the only clue he had, and Luster hadn't seemed too happy with Sam's questions. Dean's, either, which was all the more reason to go after—

A middle-aged, thin man in scrubs poked his head in, giving Dean a friendly smile. "Mister Bonham?"

Dean shot to his feet. "Yeah. How's my brother?"

"Lucky. Surgery went well, and there was a lot less damage to the abdominal cavity than we'd feared. Sam's patched up and resting comfortably—you can go sit with him if you want."

Dean made one last effort to breathe out slow, then hesitated because, duh, yeah, he wanted to so badly it hurt. But, "He's not gonna wake up for a few hours, right?"

"Nope. You wanna go clean up first?"

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding, hands rolling into fists. "Yeah, I do."

Cleaning up was exactly what he needed to do.

00000

He remembered the way to the house without checking the map, despite the nearly two dozen other houses they'd been to in the area. Dad had impressed navigation skills on him early in life, and like anything his dad had asked, anything needed for the hunt, Dean had learned it inside-out. He could go anywhere he'd been to once, and some places he'd never been.

This, however, driving the silent Impala with an empty seat next to him, was too-familiar territory.

The small grey house looked even more forlorn in the dark, and only then did Dean think to check his watch. Close to midnight. But the light still burned in the living room, and he wasn't exactly there on a social call. If he was wrong, he'd apologize. Maybe.

Dean got out of the car quietly, leaving the door ajar, and crept up to the side of the front door with gun in hand, listening for any sounds. There were some soft, heavy thuds and a voice inside, but that could have been the TV. No shadows darkened the drawn blinds.

He chewed his lip a moment, debating. But really, he was there on a pretty flimsy thread of evidence, little more than a gut feeling. Sam's guts bleeding all over his hands, shirt, and car, actually, and the need to make sure that never happened again.

Dean shut away the distraction of rage and rapped his knuckles on the thin wood.

The voice inside flared for a moment, just this side of inaudible. Then footsteps hurried to the door. It swung open to backlight the tubby form of Brian Luster.

With a fresh cut on his cheekbone. And eyes that went wide and panicked at the sight of Dean.

Uncertainty, and the agony of helplessness, melted away in a second, leaving Dean with a smile on his face that made Luster blanch.

"Bri, Bri," Dean _tch_-ed softly with a shake of the head. "Got something you wanna tell me?"

Luster suddenly lurched back, hand coming up to point shakily at Dean. "Him. Get him!" he shrieked.

Things happened fast after that.

Dean had never seen a tulku before, although their dad had run across a thoughtform once in Austin. Still, there wasn't a lot of doubt in his mind that was what he was looking at when the massive figure coalesced out of thin air right in front of him. Nor that he was about a second from getting his head knocked off when he ducked the thing's massive swing.

Cursing, Dean bobbed under its arm, into the room. Keeping it inside meant less maneuverability, plus the extra factor of a decidedly unfriendly Brian Luster. But fights in the open tended to attract attention they didn't need right now. Not to mention, there was only one way to destroy a tulku that Dean knew of.

The thing, at least a few inches taller than Sam and a lot broader but with no face, took another swing at him, this time reaching for Dean's gun.

"That how you do it?" He danced back, light on his feet and eyes sharp. "Use whatever the victims have lying around to kill them? Make it look like they did it themselves?"

The answer, unsurprisingly, came from Brian, pressed into a corner but eyes still brimming with hatred. "They deserved it! Always talking about me behind my back, stepping all over me on their way up. Well, people are sure talking about them now!"

The tulku tried again for the gun. Then, with an unusual display of intelligence, it lobbed a nearby table at Dean's head instead.

"Slipping, dude—most people don't commit suicide by table." Dean was edging over toward Luster, and he spared the man a glance. "Call it off before someone else gets hurt, Brian."

"Someone else like you and your meddling partner? I don't think so."

A vase shattered against the wall where Dean's head had been. Without the element of surprise, the tulku was just another creep with big fists, and Dean could out-feint it all night if he had to. But Sam was waiting for him back at the hospital.

"Didn't read the fine print, huh, Bri? These things don't like following orders. Oh, they'll do what you want, but first chance they get, they'll come after you, too. Get smart and _call it off."_

"No!" Brian snapped.

Dean dodged the sofa as it slid his way and slammed into the chair behind him. He sighed, shook his fists out, then his neck. "I tried, man," he said almost apologetically. Even if he destroyed Brian's toy, it was clear the psycho would just kill again, and Dean couldn't allow that. He stepped in front of Luster's corner and tossed his gun toward the tulku. "Catch, Lurch."

"Wha—?"

The tulku easily caught the weapon, and in one motion swung it up and fired it at Dean.

Who'd already hit the floor.

Luster made a soft, surprised sound, then slid to the floor behind Dean. The gun hit the carpet a moment later as the tulku followed its summoner into oblivion.

Dean breathed heavily facedown for a moment before realizing that probably wasn't the cleanest surface to be resting his face against. With a groan, he pushed up, eyeing the body of Brian Luster, propped in the corner with a hole just above his right eyebrow. He looked astonished to be dead. Dean winced, then rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth as he bent down to get his gun and the ejected casing.

"Should've listened to me, dude," he said halfheartedly. "Tulked _you_."

Brian didn't argue.

00000

As a rule, Dean liked smaller hospitals. True, they tended to have less specialists and experience, and they were more likely to check up on aliases and insurance. On the other hand, they had pastel-hued walls and sometimes curtains and real potted plants in the corners. They were places that actually encouraged healing, and that he was a little less reluctant to leave his brother behind in.

Sam's door opened silently to soft green walls and a window with a view of a starry sky. Sam looked peaceful sleeping in a bed that actually appeared comfortable instead of the stiff-sheeted boards of the major hospitals, only a few wires and tubes hooked up to him to spoil the image. Dean passed a hand over his face at the sight, breath long and cleansing, then crept closer.

Sam was pale, his eyes shadowed, and his respirations were a little shallow, a sign Dean knew from their childhood that his brother was in pain. But his face was smooth, and when his fingers twitched, it seemed to be in normal dreaming.

"Figures you'd have to end up here to get a good night's sleep," Dean muttered. He sank into the one chair drawn up beside the bed, surprised to find it pleasantly cushy.

Sam's frown and fluttering eyelashes brought him to his feet a second later.

"Sammy?"

Sam sighed, winced. Then, eyes still shut, he rasped, "Hosp'tal?"

God, it was good to hear his voice. Dean's mouth pulled up, his hand light on the kid's bandaged middle, a tacit warning not to move too much. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you let yourself get stabbed."

Sam's brow drew together. "Tulku?" His voice was a little stronger.

"Called it, dude." Dean moved his hand to Sam's forearm below the IV, rubbing there a little with his thumb. Sam had never liked needles. "Brian Luster's been dipping into some bad mojo. Some kind of high school John Hughes-drama revenge crap."

Sam sighed. "Great. Idiot."

"Yeah, well, he learned his lesson. Permanently."

Sam's eyes finally cracked open, dark in the dimly lit room. "He's dead? Did…you?"

But there was no accusation there, just concern. Dean managed a smile even for his death-warmed-over little brother. "Nope. His pet turned on him. Kinda like those dogs that eat their owners." He grinned.

Sam groaned, and it only sounded partially in pain. He dragged his arm closer to his side, trapping Dean's fingers. "Woke up…before."

Dean flinched. "Sorry I wasn't here, man—they said—"

But Sam's head was rolling weakly on the pillow. "No…I know. But…they were asking questions, Dean. Couldn't find knife or…where I was attacked… People've been killing themselves around here…"

Great. He could see where this was going; even small-town hospitals had psych wards. And groggy Sam hadn't been in much shape to talk himself out of this one, even if the drugs just amped up those sad puppy eyes.

"Dean—" Sam was pulling at his wrist with his other hand now, looking and sounding about five. "They want to—"

Oddly, it was this regressed kind of little brother he knew how to respond to most easily, the one that reminded him of their childhood, that wasn't a mystery of education and extra inches and dark secrets in his eyes. It wasn't hard to be gentle with this one as Dean squeezed his brother's arm and gave him a reassuring look. "Take it easy, Sammy. They're not putting you anywhere. I'll take care of it, okay?"

Sam stared at him a moment before easing back into the pillows, nodding. Then squirming a little, gaze sliding away from Dean to the blanket. "You, uh, didn't think…" His fingers feebly plucked at the blanket. "I mean, you know I wouldn't…right?"

Dean flinched inside but didn't let it show. He just leaned down to catch Sam's eye because this was important. "I know, Sam," he said firmly. He did now.

Sam almost smiled, breathing out and sinking even more heavily into the bed. His eyelids struggled to stay open.

"Go back to sleep. I've got a few things to take care of, all right?" Dean coaxed, hand curled around his brother's knee.

Sam's head barely stirred this time, eyes slowly sinking shut. Trusting him completely.

And Dean's heart finally lightened, because this Sam he had some hope of helping to heal.

But for now, Dean waited until his brother was asleep, then slipped out of the room.

00000

Nurse Granger shook her head. She didn't like police in her ward. She didn't like bothering patients who were supposed to be resting. And she _really _didn't like moving someone to the psych floor. But if the police were right about Sam Bonham…

She sighed and nodded over her shoulder. "He's in here." She pushed the door open, hearing the two men follow her…then stop suddenly to avoid running into her as she ground to a halt.

The bed was rumpled, blankets trailing to the floor, the IV and cardiac leads lying on the mattress. Everything was turned off, and the robe at the end of the bed was missing.

As was the patient, the bed and the room silent and empty.

00000

"You ready to go?"

Sam looked up from the hand he'd been cradling his cheek in, obviously startled. Dean would give him that one, though, because really, how on guard did you have to be in a tiny underground reading room? Then again, Sam had nearly been killed in their motel room, a place Dean had thought just as safe.

Then Sam smiled at him, and Dean sorta forgot what he was complaining about.

"Five more minutes?"

"Dude, you said that like an hour ago. We agreed two hours at a time, then you take a break."

"But, Dean, I found this incredible translation of—"

That was about where he tuned Sam out, hearing _blah, blah, blah _in his head even as he watched his brother's face closely.

Despite the lame case he'd cooked up as transparent excuse, they were on vacation until Sam healed up. Dean? Dean would have chosen to go recover on a beach somewhere, or maybe Vegas. Sam he'd brought to Washington, DC. College Boy could geek out to his heart's content here in the world's largest library.

Which he had, fresh color in his face despite the slow way he still moved around and his new life as a mole, renewed enthusiasm lighting his eyes. And smiles every day.

Dean was finding a whole new appreciation for libraries himself.

"…not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?" Sam was just finishing, but he looked amusedly exasperated, not annoyed.

Dean grinned back. "Nope."

Sam shook his head, bangs sweeping out of his eyes. "Man, you're hopeless, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you're not," Dean said fondly. He tucked a hand under Sam's arm and lightly pulled. "C'mon, Poindexter, I'll buy you a hot dog."

Let him work on that for a while.

**The End**


End file.
